![]() Some of my fondest memories of childhood involve time spent with my dad. Saturday mornings were my favorite, because it meant running errands with him--to the bank, to the auto parts, a stop at Grandpa and Grandma’s, and maybe even lunch at Sutter’s Bakery & Restaurant. As you can imagine, these times were special to me, because it meant one-on-one time with my father. During our drives to these errands, he often recounted stories of his childhood and teenage years, stories that soaked into my mind and helped to shape my imagination. As a teenager and young adult, my life became busy with school, friends, work, and extracurriculars, and consequently, errands with my father were not as common. But there was one errand we still did together: honey runs. You’ll search the internet and the dictionary in vain, if you try to find the term honey run. It’s a term my father coined, and it means an excuse to take a drive together, to talk together, to share ideas, and maybe, if we remember, to buy a jar of local honey. Honey runs typically took place at night, after Dad returned home from work and we had dinner. “You want to go on a honey run with me?” he asks. “Yep,” I say, as I get up to put on my shoes. We get into his Ford Ranger, a white Scottish Terrier positioned on the console between us, and drive to Gagetown, just northwest of the village, where the beekeeper lives. I relish these times with my dad, especially the summer honey runs with their golden Michigan sunsets. I roll my window down and put my arm out the door, the warm evening breeze gliding over my hand. Fields laden with tall, green corn stalks raise their proud heads in the afterglow of the setting sun. As Dad drives, we talk about our day, what went well, what we hope not to repeat tomorrow. We comment on the latest political news, talk about things of the Lord, point out deer we can see in the distance, and discuss the latest family news from down state, Florida, Tennessee, and Indiana. My favorite conversations during honey runs were those where we talked about the things of tomorrow. Dad talked about ideas he had and what he hoped for, but more often he asked me about my own. Ideas about college and career. Dreams of travel and experiences, of a wife and family. Sometimes, sitting across from someone at a table or in a living room can make intimate conversations difficult. You’re looking at the other person’s face and analyzing their reactions to what you are saying. It wasn’t that way with honey runs. On a honey run, you are sitting side-by-side, looking out the window. Your words are directed at each other, but your eyes look out at the fields and houses passing by. I have never been inside a confessional booth and never will, but I imagine that it is, in a way, a similar experience to a honey run, except that honey run conversations are about hopes, not sins. Before either of us knows it, we are at the beekeeper’s home, where we pull into his driveway and visit the self-serve honey stand by the road. Dad pulls a jar of honey out and puts the money into the little lock box, and we begin our drive home. On honey runs, driving home rarely meant going directly back to the house. Often, we would drive up and down streets in the village, where we talked about the town and its history, of memories we have there, of people we miss seeing sitting on their porches. "I remember riding bikes with my friends down there when it was Fort's Store," Dad says. "We would buy as much candy as we could." "Can you see what's playing at the Cass next week?" I ask. Dad looks over his shoulder at the theatre's poster and reads the name off. I make a mental note to go see it. Sometimes, we would drive down River Road, the lazy Cass River below, meandering its way to the west. The distant sound of horse hooves can be heard in the distance. Clip, clop, clip, clop, clip, clop. The dim and eerie glow of an Amish buggy’s lantern grows brighter, but no less eerie as the sound of the horse’s canter draws closer. The buggy glides by, its driver raising his hand in a friendly “good evening” salute. Eventually, we turn on to Shabbona Road and make our way toward the little, white house on Lightning Hill, a warm glow coming from the kitchen window above the sink. We park in the driveway and wrap up our conversation. “Thanks for letting me talk about these things,” I say to Dad. “Thanks for talking to me about them,” he replies. “I always enjoy hearing what’s on your mind, and I’m always here for you to talk to.” Honey runs are a thing of the past now that I live away from my family, but I can’t help but think that the world might be a better place if more fathers took their children on honey runs of their own.
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![]() With the sun casting its final rays of day on the Las Vegas skyline behind her, Rhoda sits at her dining room table reminiscing about her eclectic life of 91 years. I first met Rhoda a couple of months ago at a get-together, where she mentioned that she was the originator of the famed magazine Seventeen. What I knew of her story intrigued me, so I asked for an interview, which she kindly granted. The following is the story of Rhoda—a remarkable woman with an equally remarkable and distinctly American life. The daughter of a Jewish immigrant father and an American mother, Rhoda Friedman was born and raised in Hackensack, New Jersey. Life in a small town was idyllic for her. It was in 1939, however, that as a 15-year-old senior at Hackensack High School, tragedy struck her happy life. An explosion occurred at the local tire factory, where two men were killed, and her father was among the injured. "My father was in a coma for nearly 5 months. Then I realized that he invested his money, but had very little savings. So, we had to turn our beautiful house into a two-family house. My mother had to sell all the things the pawn shop would buy. “In the meantime, I was going to go to Wellesley [College]. We could never afford to go to Wellesley. This is the beginning of my life. I finally realized that I had to be an important part of the family.” This realization took her to the guidance counselor at Hackensack High School, Ms. Bennet. “I said, ‘Ms. Bennet, what do I do?’ She said, ‘We’ll get you a scholarship.’” At that time, The Woman’s Club of New Jersey was looking for a female student to send to New York University. Ms. Bennet told her that the organization “would like someone to go to their school of business or the school of retailing…to a school a woman could find a career in”. Rhoda remembers vividly the day she arrived to be interviewed by the Woman’s Club board and assembly. Upon her arrival, she found herself among several other girls. She would later find out that many of these girls were from prominent New Jersey families. Rhoda had a secret weapon, though: style. “I was very crafty, so I made myself a very nice hat from the form of my mother’s hat, and added a brim, and a nice bow on it to match a black outfit I had that I wore to [synagogue] services. One of my friends loaned me a handkerchief, and one of my friends loaned me a handbag, and everyone wished me well.” As she walked into the interview room, the ladies present turned their eyes to the stylish young woman from Hackensack. “Where did you get that hat?” asked one of the interviewers. “I made my hat,” came the reply. “Don’t you buy hats?” another asked. “I can’t afford to buy hats,” Rhoda replied. She explained that she was in a unique situation for someone seeking a scholarship to the prestigious NYU. “I’m here because I need you, and maybe you’ll need me.” Impressed and a bit taken aback by the confidence and directness of the young woman, the ladies invited her to lunch, saw to it that she arrived safely home, and the interview day was over. Two days later, Rhoda was paged to Ms. Bennet’s office. “Come right into my office, Rhoda!” she said, feigning displeasure. Then, with a wide grin, she spread her arms for a hug as she said, “You’re in!” Rhoda’s entrance into New York University was a triumph, but her time there required hard work. She made money by working in her dormitory as a student matron, grading papers for professors, and other means. The college freshman also had an early taste of anti-Semitism at her new school. Rhoda and her roommate became fast friends, but her roommate’s father, the president of a large railroad company, was not convinced sharing a room with a Jewish girl was a good idea. “[Her parents] came into my room and interviewed me—now that was being interviewed!” she said. “The only people they had seen were the so-called ‘people with the horns’,” she said, referring to the oft repeated claim that Jews were demons in human flesh. Thankfully, their Jewish phobia soon melted away, and Rhoda became a friend. In 1943, at the age of 19, Rhoda Friedman graduated and was awarded The Alumni Key, the honor bestowed upon the student with the best grades. She soon found out that her abilities and her mind were in high demand. “I was invited to the chancellor’s house for lunch. At the lunch is the brightest student from med school, the brightest student from law school, the brightest student from education—you name the school, they picked the most outstanding student from there,” she said. At the meeting were the “big whigs” from the university, businesses, and other sectors of society. “And then, out of the blue, is this big man with a stunning woman, who owned a store in Brooklyn. I had never been to Brooklyn!” she said. “And he owned a big department store I had never heard of. And they bid on you, and the money they bid went to the university!” The “big man” was the owner of A.I Namm & Son Department Store, and he won the “intellectual auction”, beating out Hearn’s, Gimbels, and other big name department stores. He then offered Rhoda a sizable salary, one she couldn’t refuse; and Rhoda Friedman became the newest member of the Namms Department Store empire. In the meantime, New York Mayor Fiorella H. La Guardia came calling. “Rhoda, I need you,” he said. “You got spirit, you got looks. I want you. Do you have nice warm clothes? You’re going riding in an open car with me. We’ll go to Brooklyn, go to the Bronx. We’re going to rallies for the men in service.” Mayor La Guardia took the wide-eyed 19-year-old to factories where she would give speeches—sales pitches for war bonds. “I worked for Mayor La Guardia for about two years,” she said. “Then I get a call from Bert Nevins, and he sounds like La Guardia. I said, “Mayor, are you trying to pull something? What do you want from me now?” After assuring her it was not the former Mayor of New York, but Bert Nevins, one of the country’s publicity and marketing geniuses, he arranged to meet Rhoda at The Plaza Hotel. “In walks a pudgy, little guy smoking a cigar. He says, ‘You’re hired.’” Unaware of what she had just been hired to do, Rhoda questioned him. Nevins wanted a woman who was aware of current Hollywood fashions and trends who could make the fashion industry known. Rhoda was introduced to major fashion, business, and other female contacts in her new position as Bert Nevins’ “new icon”. On one fateful day, Nevins informed Rhoda they would be going to a very important meeting. “ It’s one of the biggest publishers in the world,” he said. “Behave yourself. Don’t come up with any big ideas. Just sit there. I’ve gotta figure out what it is they want.” At 9 a.m. on the day of the meeting, Rhoda walked into the board room, briefcase in hand. Inside the case was a phone book, which she sat on to make her small frame look taller. The meeting soon began and the chairman informed those in attendance that they were all in trouble with their client. Soon, a tall man entered the room. Rhoda would later learn that his name was Walter Annenberg, and he was not a happy client. His publications, which were primarily concerned with the lives of movie stars, were not doing well. “How are we going to increase circulation? How?” he asked angrily. The 22-year-old raised her hand, defying her boss’ orders. “First of all, all your publication names are too much alike,” she said. “What?!” he snapped. “Secondly,” she continued, “I was reading in The New York Times last night–” She was cut off by the angry voice of the publishing giant. “I don’t care who reads what in The New York Times!” “Sir, please,” she said. “I was reading last night, and I found out in a small squib that Booth Tarkington’s book, "Seventeen", is public domain today; and I advise us to call the legal department and pick it up right now. You can take Stardust magazine or any other magazine you have, and turn it into a whole new world for people that are teenagers.” “In my office!” he shouted at her. Once inside the office, he calmed down. “Tell me about this idea you have,” he said. “You know,” began Rhoda, “I’ve had an idea for a long time, and today it’s right.” “Tell me how this should be developed,” the tycoon said. “We’ll meet, we’ll work it out. You just gave birth to a magazine.” The year was 1944. A year or so after that, one of the country’s biggest manufacturers of clothes came to Rhoda with an offer she couldn’t refuse. She would have a radio show, and other resources available to her by which she would reach the American teenager. Rhoda worked for the company, hosting “The Teen Timer’s Club” on The Bluet Network, while continuing to work with Walter Annenberg as a contractor. You won’t find much when you Google Rhoda’s name. She was largely a behind-the-scenes component of the entities she worked for. “I sold ideas for money,” she said, referring to the fact that her name never appeared on the mastheads or histories of Seventeen. In 1947, Rhoda married her husband, Ray—a union that lasted until his death 65 years later. The couple had two daughters who are highly respected in their fields. Today, Rhoda is an active nonagenarian. When she’s not walking her dog, attending Bible study, or helping around her synagogue, you can find her working with the Anti-Defamation League, serving on the properties committee of her community, or helping a friend in need. “Each day,” she said, “I try to find something good to appreciate and look forward to.” (Originally published November 3, 2014) ![]() In the spring of my sixteenth year, I was given a black mountain bike. It quickly became my favorite possession, because it gave me a newfound freedom. I rode miles and miles each day after school, and spent entire days in the summer riding it around the countryside and throughout the village. One of my favorite destinations was to Milligan Road, where Jack and Ruth Esau lived. Jack was a local historian, proud Marine, and beloved friend to the community. (You can read more about Jack in a previous post here). Ruth was a remarkable woman. Her father died when she was just two years old. She contracted polio as a child, and suffered from post-polio syndrome as an adult. But Ruth’s “sad past”, as she often referred to it, did not keep her from leading an extraordinary life. She went to college, married, had children, enjoyed her career as a teacher, and was active in community affairs. While this may not seem unusual today, for a young woman in the 1930s and ‘40s, she was quite progressive. When I met Ruth, she was nearly 90 years old, but her mind was sharp and her elocution (a word she taught me, I think) was precise. I was cautious with my speech around her, because, ever the teacher, she would sometimes stop me mid-sentence to correct my grammar. (We once had a week-long discussion about the distinction between “who” and “whom”). Considering that I knew Ruth for only a couple of years, she had an inordinate and profound impact on my life. Our conversations--sometimes in person, other times by phone or letter--went deeper than the weather and the latest news from the village. We talked about history, art, music, and the two topics we did not agree on--politics and theology. Although I’m sure she did not realize it at the time, Ruth taught me how to disagree with someone on fundamental issues, yet still be friends with that person. I remember, early on in our friendship, that I made the mistake of inferring from something she said that the Esaus were Republicans. Ruth laughed, a glimmer in her eye. “We are diehard Democrats!” Jack answered. I stood corrected. Ruth’s impact on my life was that of a truly great teacher. She corrected my grammar and taught me things I did not know; but her greatest lessons came to me in a far more powerful way. She influenced me. While doing research at the library one afternoon, I came across a note Ruth had written to a prominent community leader back in 1965. It was a note thanking the woman for the work she had done on in spearheading the town’s centennial celebration. How remarkable, I thought, that Ruth wrote a note to this leader, not for something she had done for Ruth, personally, but something she did for the community at large. That simple note, unbeknownst to Ruth, had such an impact on me that I have adopted her practice, writing brief notes to those whose work I appreciate and want to encourage. Another lesson Ruth taught me, and one I am still working at, is writing with clarity. She once told me that she wrote the way she spoke. My English teachers and professors have cautioned their students against such a practice; but it worked for Ruth, because she spoke perfectly. I don’t remember her even using contractions in her speech (she would probably correct this sentence). I often hear her voice when I am writing, critiquing my style and grammar. Of greater importance was the way in which Ruth welcomed everyone into her home. As a long-time friend of the Esau family once wrote, “One of the great joys of visiting [the Esaus] was that one could never anticipate what new ideas, inspirations, or for that matter people that you might encounter.” Indeed, Ruth was liberal, in the true sense of the word, and I loved her for it. She enjoyed talking about a range of topics and welcomed into her home an equally wide variety of people, even those with whom she might not agree (even a young, 15-year-old Republican, like me). Recently, a cultural commentator was asked why he never ran for political office. His answer was profound. He said, “Politicians want power over people. I’d rather have influence on people.” This morning, as I remember Ruth on the eleventh anniversary of her death, I smile, because that was Ruth’s secret power: influence. And I am a better person for it. ![]() Sitting by the window next to my desk is a framed 8 ½” x 11” certificate, given to us by some close friends. It reads: A tree has been planted in Israel at The Friends of Israel Grove for Baby Perry. This piece of paper is not unusual--many trees have been planted in Israel in honor of children and others. It’s a common tradition, especially in the Jewish community. But this certificate is special to us. I’ll never forget the morning my wife came to me with a smile on her face. In her hands was a pregnancy test, and the message on it made it clear that our lives were about to change: Pregnant. A day or two later, as I was sitting in a coffee shop across from the university, I took out my laptop and wrote a letter to my unborn child. I wrote of being elated and fearful, of the budding love I already had for him or her, of the great hopes I had of being a good father and for this child to grow and to learn and to walk with the Lord. I’ll also never forget the morning we realized my wife was miscarrying. We had only known about the baby for a short time--he or she had only been alive in their mother’s womb for 6 weeks--but the sense of loss was great. I’m reminded of that hurt when I read the entry in my journal from that day: We lost our baby… It hurts. It is an unselfish hurt in the truest sense. I hurt because a life was extinguished. We have experienced such wonderful lives ourselves, and we desired that for our baby, too. I don’t completely understand why the Lord allowed this child to die, but my knowledge of His goodness and faithfulness allows me to know this is no exception to His ways. Whenever I look at that certificate sitting to the side of my desk, I think of that little one and of the tears that streamed down my face that day, as I mourned the loss of life. On the other side of my desk is a crib, and in it, as I write, is a smiling, cooing, blue-eyed baby girl. Just two months ago, she was in her mother’s womb, and I could see her frequent movements. Sometimes, I think she even played with me, as I poked at her and she poked back. This little girl is, aside from my salvation and my wife, the best thing that has ever happened to me. I look at her lying there with wonder. It is not a questioning wonder about who she is and what she will grow up to be like, although I do think about those things. Rather, it’s an awestruck wonder at the fact that this little girl is a person and was a person when she was in her mother’s womb and will always be a person, from now to the moment she breathes in her first breath of Heavenly air. As I sit at my desk and consider the lives represented on both sides of me in this moment--one born, one unborn--my heart aches. Today is the anniversary of Roe v. Wade. Forty-six years ago, this Supreme Court decision was handed down, making abortion-on-demand legal in all 50 states. Since that time, an estimated 60,000,000 unborn children, many of them minorities, have had their lives taken from them while still in utero. Much has been written--and, sadly, shouted-- about the matter of abortion. My purpose is not to write about why abortion is wrong or to engage in cyber fencing matches. It’s true, my hope is that abortion will one day become as unthinkable in the American mind as slavery or Jim Crow laws are. Yes, I wish for my friends and neighbors to see Planned Parenthood for what it really is-- a lucrative and bloody industry of death, hiding behind legitimate medical services. But my purpose in writing is to point out that there is far more to being pro-life than voting for Republican candidates or slapping pithy bumper stickers on our vehicles. To be truly pro-life, we must value and uphold the dignity of life on both sides of the womb. Being pro-life means giving of our time and resources to pregnancy centers that help families not only reconsider their abortion inclinations, but also to assist them with parenting classes, adoption services, diapers, formula, or a shoulder to cry on. Being pro-life means helping widows and orphans in their distress, even if they look differently than we do, or don’t speak English, or vote for candidates we do not support. Being pro-life means prayerfully considering adoption and foster care, or supporting those who are. Being pro-life means being pro-man, pro-woman, pro-child, pro-family. Being pro-life means treating all human beings with dignity, from conception to death, because they have been fashioned by their creator in His image. We must avoid the political trap of being either for women or against women, for the unborn or against them. The truth is, the circumstances that lead women to consider abortion are not happy ones. Often, women are fearful--fearful of the circumstances their unborn child would be born into; fearful the announcement of their pregnancy would draw the ire of the men in their lives; and fearful of how their own lives will be upended by the introduction of this new one. As pro-life individuals, we must not compromise on our most foundational belief--abortion is wrong. But to be truly pro-life, we must value life on both sides of the womb, and we must help both the parents and the unborn children not only live, but thrive. Today, we mourn the fact that Roe v. Wade has not yet been cast onto the ash heap of history, and we do all in our power to see to it that it is one day. But we also rejoice that there are organizations, churches, and individuals who are dedicated to helping all parties facing unwanted or unplanned pregnancies, and upholding the dignity and sanctity of human life on both sides of the womb. ![]() May 15, 2010 was my last day of high school and the first day I began cultivating one of the most rewarding disciplines I know of: journaling. There was a time when keeping a journal or a diary was commonplace. They were kept by such luminaries as Lewis and Clark, Eleanor Roosevelt, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Winston Churchill, and most U.S. presidents. The daily entries of these greats have served both as historical records of major world events and as intimate glimpses into the lives of some of the world’s most interesting people. Journaling is not just for famous people, though. Chances are good that your grandparents or great-grandparents kept one. My great-grandmother did. I remember seeing her little dollar store diary with its metal clasp laying on her end table whenever I went to her home. It was only when she passed away that I learned her practice of keeping a daily diary extended well beyond her senior years--it began in 1937! At the end of each diary, Grandma wrote down highlights of that year and typed those entries out on her typewriter. When she passed away, each of her children’s families received a copy of those entries. It’s been so fun to read of her life from the 1930s and ‘40s, when she was raising her three boys, all the way up to her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. My name even appears in a few entries. As for me, I am now on my tenth journal. I’ve never paid much for one, and the one I’m currently using is probably the least expensive of them all--a Moleskine look-alike from Walmart. The pages of these journals, though, are invaluable. They record the days of my life, and the discipline of writing nearly every day has been a joy. You’ll notice that I refer to journaling as a discipline. I say that, because it is. Cultivating a discipline is to “train oneself to do something in a controlled and habitual way”. It takes work, because it takes time and requires a person to submit themselves to a new regimen. But you’ll also notice that I refer to journal-keeping as a joy. Here are a few of the joyful benefits of keeping a journal... 1.) It provides an outlet for thoughts, ideas, and emotions. There are certainly other good ways to do this, such as art, music, athletics, etc.; but I find that putting what is in my mind down on paper is a great way to sort things out, to determine what I really think about something, to express grief or happiness, or even just to record ideas before bed, so I don’t have to think about them all night. 2.) It’s a helpful reference. I have not written every day of the past 9 years, but I have more often than not. Doing so has helped greatly, on a practical level, because it enables me to go back and confirm when various events, such as births and deaths, meetings and phone calls took place. It can also be fun to pull an old journal off the shelf, look up today’s date, and see what I was doing that day a year, or years, before. Think of it as a more intimate version of Facebook’s “memories” feature. 3.) It’s a record of you. Keeping a journal, especially a daily journal, is essentially maintaining a record of yourself, especially when used to write about your spiritual life. On numerous occasions, as I have read entries from my past, I have been convicted by how close to the Lord I was at that time, or conversely, how much I had grown in my understanding and experience of Him since then. These records (plural, because you’ll fill several notebooks in your lifetime, if you do it right) are fun to read later on in life, despite the embarrassment they’ll occasionally bring, and they’ll certainly be a delight to your children and grandchildren one day. 4.) It’s a record of God’s faithfulness. Using your journal to record prayers is an excellent practice. On several occasions, I have written prayers, then moved on with my day, only to revisit what I wrote several days later and find that the Lord had answered my prayers in unexpected ways. We can become so engrossed in asking for things of the Lord that we forget to thank Him for how He has provided. A journal, when you read it some time later, is a good praise prompter. So here’s my challenge to you: today, go to the dollar store, Walmart, Barnes & Noble, wherever, and buy yourself a journal. Put it on your nightstand or by the recliner, and don’t go to bed tonight before you write a few lines of what the day was like, how the Lord is working in your life, or a combination of things, then put it down. Tomorrow, do the same thing. Sure, it’s a discipline that requires work (and remembering!); but before you know it, it will be a habit you can’t imagine not indulging. It’s astonishing how a dog can ingraft itself into a family. When they first arrive, they change the make-up and function of the entire home. Their puppy cries in the night change our sleep patterns. Their gnawing on furniture legs and messes on the carpet cause us to wonder whether adopting them was such a good idea. But before we know it, they are eating from our plates, playing with our kids, barking at our mailman, and worming their way into our hearts.
This morning, we said "goodbye" to Louie, our buddy of 12 years. We'll miss him, but we're thankful for the laughs and joy he brought to our lives. As James writes, "Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above..." He certainly was a gift to our family. We'll miss you, Lou. ![]() There’s something terribly unwelcoming about the penetrating chill that Michigan greets its guests with in the winter months. For Las Vegans, walking down the jet bridge after a day-long journey, the greeting is especially rude. We’re a delicate people, when it comes to cold. Give us 110-degree heat and scorching sun; but that frosty stuff, forget it. My wife and I recently made just such a trip back to Michigan, and the greeting, though more mild than it has been in previous trips, was no less inhospitable. As soon as we reached the baggage claim, we unzipped our bags and pulled out the winter coats that have hung in our closets since last year’s visit. We wrapped scarves around our necks, gloved our hands, and sunk our heads into our thick winter hats, then brace ourselves for the 6-yard-walk from the baggage claim doors to the waiting car. Life is hard. We’ve heard all the excuses there are for why we can’t handle the winter weather, and we’ve used many of them ourselves. “You’ve just acclimated to that desert heat.” “But this is a particularly cold winter.” And my favorite-- “Your blood’s just thinned”. The truth is, we’re wimps, plain and simple. For all the violent shivering and the use of Baptist epithets against the frigid breath of the Mitten state-- “Good grief!”-- there is one thing that warms the body and the heart against it all: the sight of home. As our car rounds the M-81 bend, there is Katie Jackson’s house, welcoming visitors and those returning home to Cass City. Although Katie is now gone, as are the candles in every window that added so much to the sensation of “homing”, the house will forever be “Katie’s” and will always signal to the Cass City native, wherever they are coming from, that the trip home is complete. Into town we drive, the broad Main Street (99-feet-wide, to be precise) lined with two-story brick buildings, the faces of many of which have looked down onto the same parades, families, and even some businesses for well over a century, stand at attention. Some have been refreshed with 21st-century facades and signage; others’ peeling paint and empty windows speak of better days. But all of them are familiar faces that seem to smile back a “welcome home”. Down through town, past the theatre, the corner drugstore, the village clock that is always 5 to 10 minutes slow, up the hill past the large homes built by the town’s former luminaries, and into my parents’ neighborhood. If I’m to be honest, and I will be, the trip to my parents’ home does not require a drive down Main Street; it’s out of the way, in fact; but it’s part of my routine, part of the Ritual of returning to the Thumb of Michigan. I spent the first 23 years of my life in this area, the sixth generation of my family to call it home. Every building, every street, contains memories, mine and those I’ve adopted from others. The Ritual I follow whenever I return to the area, done almost without thought, exhumes these recollections, and brings with them a melancholic smile to my face. The Ritual changes little from visit to visit--that’s what makes it a ritual. But there is one deviation. When visiting in the summer months, my first stop is my grandparents’ home. (They spend their winters down south, so I’m out of luck at Christmastime; hence the deviation). Most often, Grandpa can be found in his garage behind the house, where he is working his craft, bringing new life to aged autos. His shop smells of work, of body filler, lacquer thinner, and metal dust. I purposely scuff my feet on the concrete floor as I walk through the garage door. I don’t want to startle him. He’s deep in thought as he examines his work and plots out the next movement of his hands. Bending. Sanding. Painting. We talk about his latest project, and he asks me about my travels; where I’ve been, where I’m going. After awhile, I ask him where Grandma is. (I always know the answer, but it’s part of the Ritual). “She’s in the house,” he says. “Go on in and see her.” “See ya later,” I say. “So long,” he says. Inside, Grandma stands in the kitchen, where she’s busy washing dishes. “Hellooo,” she says to me. I’m expected. It’s part of the Ritual. We sit at the table and talk about my trip, the latest local happenings, family developments, and such. If she’s been to Turner’s Blueberry Farm, she gets a bowl for me, and pulls a half gallon of milk out of the fridge and the sugar bowl from the cupboard. I eat the sun-warmed blueberries, as we talk. Before long, it’s time to go. Then to the library--if Grandpa & Grandma aren’t home, it’s the first stop. As the doors open, I smell the unsurprising, but still-pleasing, aroma of books. In many towns and cities, the library is a receptacle of knowledge; a place where anyone, no matter their race, religion, creed, or social standing, has equal access to information. That’s good. What’s great is Rawson Library. Here, the community gathers under the pretense of acquiring books, and that we do; but we gather there, also, to connect with neighbors, to organize ourselves, to exchange news--both that which is true and that which we heard is true. The library is all those things for me and more. My visits always include conversations with the library staff, my former co-workers. We update one another on family and community news. We ask each other for more details on status updates we read on social media. We talk about books we’ve recently read. And we do this because...it’s what you do when you’re at the library. The Ritual includes other places, too. There’s the cemetery, where I visit the graves of loved ones departed. I don’t talk to them--they aren’t there; but it’s a good practice to remember them, to think about the ways in which our lives intertwined, and to consider the brevity of my own life. As one gravestone there reads: Where you are now, I once was. Where I am now, you will be. Prepare, in time, for eternity. I am prepared; but a visit to the cemetery is good for a soul nevertheless. There’s the antique shop in a neighboring town, where I peruse the latest finds by local consigners. Sometimes I purchase small things; but usually not. It’s just part of the Ritual. I drive down River Road and look down into the Cass, lazy in the summer, frozen solid in the winter. I drive by my boyhood home on Shabbona Road; Lightning Hill, we called it. My corner bedroom looks so much smaller than it did when I was 5. Could it be the same place? At least one morning of each visit, I have breakfast at “Nick’s”, the local restaurant. The menu there changes little, if any, from visit to visit; but that’s part of the charm. A bowl of oatmeal or a couple slices of toast hits the spot. I always come prepared to pay, but often, I find that someone else--sometimes an anonymous someone else--picks up the tab. I now live in a city of 2 million. We have every form of entertainment you can imagine and enough dining options to make your head spin. There are well over 30 movie theaters in the city, many of them open exceptionally late. We have an Amazon fulfillment center close to us, meaning if we can’t find it in the store, we can get it delivered to our doorstep very quickly. It’s great. I enjoy it. There is, however, no house at the curve to tell me I’m almost home; no grandparents to hug and talk with; no buildings smiling at me as I come into town; no talks with friends at the library; no roots and no memories. For those things, I have to go home. I have to go back to the Ritual. And I’m glad it’s there. ![]() The shop was much less inviting than I expected it would be when I Googled “antique shops near me”. The door was of the nondescript, utilitarian, steel variety with iron bars over the windows on each side of it, standing guard. It looked as though the adjoining building had been violently ripped off the side of it at some point, leaving a jagged edge of protruding bricks along the top edge. But this was it; the faded sign extending over the cracked sidewalk below confirmed we had arrived to our destination: Junque Shop Antiques. As my dad and I entered the ramshackle building, I heard the clinking of coffee cups and the deep voices of old men. Somewhere in the little office space at the rear of the building, a TV squawked the play-by-play of that afternoon’s football game. The owners of the old voices were also found at the back of the building; the white man sitting on a stool, the black man making himself some coffee. The small building smelled of stout coffee, dust, and things old. “Who knows? Maybe we’re related,” the white man jested at the black man. “You know, you just might be right,” the black man said, stirring his coffee. “Your family ever have slaves?” “Slaves?” snorted the white man. “My family was so poor we couldn’t afford to pay attention. We didn’t have no slaves!” The black man laughed, taking his styrofoam cup into his hands. “That’s true, that’s true,” he said. “You want half my sandwich?” the white man said to the black man. “Yes, please!” the black man said. “Thanks, man.” The white man turned to us, as he split his sandwich in two. “Can I assist you gentlemen?” he asked. Dad smiled at him. “Just browsing your wares,” he said. “I hope you do more than browse!” the man retorted with a kind, but mischievous grin. We continued to peruse the store. The floor creaked--well, I am left to assume it was the floor, because I could see no floor. It was strewn with a menagerie of things, all covered by a blanket of dust. The walls, too, were plastered with relics of Detroit’s past, most of which had seen better days. An old mantle clock that, along with tarnished trumpets, battered hat boxes, and rusted coffee cans, sat precariously on top of a rickety shelf, a thick layer of dust enveloping it and everything else around it. We browsed the cramped basement, ducking so as not to hit our heads on the low-hanging ceiling. More dust-enveloped relics. A man with a pointed nose and an Indiana Jones-style hat thumbed through a stack of lithographs, searching for a treasure of his own. We trekked back up the narrow stairway and into the cluttered curiosity shop. I looked up, again, to where the mantle clock was sitting. I took it down and wiped off some of the dust, revealing a beautiful walnut case with a small chip out of the front for added character. “What are you asking for this clock?” I asked the white man. “That clock? Well, let’s see. It’s a Seth Thomas, so it’s a good clock. Why don’t you see if it runs.” It did. We haggled, until we found a price we could agree on, and shook hands. The black man continued sipping his coffee and eating his sandwich, watching us seal the deal. We shook hands; he gave us his card; and we left. Is there a better way to spend an afternoon? I think not. ![]() A couple of summers ago, my dad and I took a drive from his home in Cass City, Michigan out to the ghost town of Tyre, Michigan, in Austin Township. While, at one time, it was a bustling farm village with two general stores, a post office, church, hotel, and a railroad depot, among other things, it is little more than a crossroads today. As we drove through, the setting reminded me of Whistlestop, the fictional town in the movie Fried Green Tomatoes. Little did I know, at the time, Whistlestop and Tyre share more than visual similarities; they are both scenes of mysterious murders. Jacki Howard’s The Thumb Pointed Fingers tells, in novel form, the story of the murders of the Sparling men at the turn of the 20th century, in Tyre. First, J.W. passes away in 1909, due to an unknown illness; he was followed by son Peter in 1910, and both sons Albert and Scyrel in 1911, all of whom died of painful illnesses doctors later diagnosed as arsenic poisoning. The first two-thirds of the book tells the story of the Sparling family and the untimely deaths of the Sparling men. The last third of the book, beginning with chapter 43, is where it gets good. The bulk of it is a fascinating transcript of the trial proceedings of the accused (I won’t tell you who it is), and is, by far, the best portion of dialogue in the novel. Despite the interesting story, the novel lacks literary color. The writing is plain and the characters are not well-developed. The readers is often told what a person does, instead of it being described for them, allowing the description to bring the people to life. Additionally, the author does not give the reader physical descriptions of the places and objects about which she writes. We read of automobiles, houses, farms, roads, etc. without having any description of how those things appear, smell, feel. This made reading the novel, especially the first two-thirds of it, at times boring and flat. With that said, the author, who is a relative of the Sparling family, does well at building a fictitious storyline around the basic historical facts of the account. It becomes readily apparent to the reader that Howard has done her research, genealogical and otherwise, in her preparation for telling her family’s fascinating story. I give this book 3 stars out of 5, and recommend it to anyone interested in historical fiction, especially those living in the Thumb of Michigan. You can purchase the book here. ![]() I have had an aversion to graphic novels ever since I first became aware of them about ten years ago. To my way of thinking, graphic novels steal from the beauty of true literature and cannot possibly grant the same enjoyment to their viewers (For those who consume graphic novels can’t possibly be called “readers”, right?) that a traditional book does to its readers. Before you think me a snob, let me assure you that my views have changed some, since reading Art Spiegelman’s masterful graphic novel Maus. Actually, you can find a few editions of the work, but I read The Complete Maus. The book--and it is a book, I assure you--is the story of Art Spiegelman’s father Vladek Spiegelman and his story of early adulthood in pre-war Poland and later survival in Nazi-occupied Europe. The story is told in a unique way, due not only to its format as a graphic novel, but also because of the way Spiegelman chooses to portray his characters. The Jews are mice, the Poles are pigs, the Germans are cats, the French are frogs, and the Americans are the dogs, who save the day. Spiegelman’s illustrations drive home the inter-cultural complexities of life in Europe during the occupation. At times, Vladek and other Jews in the story disguise themselves as pigs, in an attempt to blend in with their Polish neighbors. And the reader is occasionally surprised to find a pig that is willing to help its mice neighbors, or a cat that can be paid off to turn a blind eye to the activities of the mice in the concentration camps. Such vivid imagery brings the account to life in a meaningful way. While Vladek’s true story is incredibly sad and compelling, as most accounts of Holocaust survival are, the author’s recounting of the circumstances of how his father told him his survival story is charming. The story is recounted by Vladek to his son in the midst of various everyday activities, such as riding his exercise bike to strengthen his weakened heart, driving to the bank or grocery store, and pestering his busy son to put in the storm windows to save money on the heating bill. Additionally, the graphic novel, at least this one, accomplishes what few traditional pieces of literature can do. It allows the reader to effortlessly see the transition between the past and present, as Vladek’s flashbacks are frequent and powerful, though often interrupted by his kvetching about the price of groceries or his wife’ demands. Note: don’t let the pictures fool you--a graphic novel does not equate to a children’s book. The themes present in any telling of a Holocaust story should be handled carefully by parents, and Maus is no exception. The story is graphic, even without the images, and is made even more powerful by the illustrations. Additionally, there is occasional foul language that many, including myself, may find disturbing; but their presence is not overpowering, no matter how little they contribute to the story. I know I have enjoyed a book when I am sad that I have reached the last page, and this was one such book. The story, the way Spiegelman tells it, and the medium he uses to convey the account come together beautifully to form a memorable read. I give this book 4 stars out of 5, and recommend it to most teens and adults, with the reservations I mention taken into consideration. Happy reading! |
AuthorTy Perry is a writer and blogger living in metro Detroit. Archives
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